


Whisky at Bedtime

by velvetjinx



Series: Candids 'verse [4]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx/pseuds/velvetjinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 4: "Stop playing with me! I'm not a toy!" Containing angst and unhappiness. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisky at Bedtime

Simon gripped his glass and splashed in another two fingers of the 30-year-old Ardbeg, hissing as some of the golden liquid spilled onto his hand. He re-corked the bottle and licked his fingers, before picking up the glass and downing half of it in one swallow.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He stared into the amber depths of the whisky, absently tapping a well-manicured nail against the crystal. Memories assailed him, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing up his eyes in an attempt to remove the images he was almost convinced were burned there. Bright green eyes shining with anger; a mug shattering against the wall; coffee spray over faded magnolia paint; the door slamming hard enough to shake the walls behind someone he could have loved.

_”What do you even want, Simon?”_

_“I….”_

_“Y’know what? It doesn’t even matter. You only want to play with people. But guess what? People aren’t your toys.”_

He drank the rest of the whisky and grabbed the bottle, this time filling the glass to the top. Turning the bottle around, he stared at the label. He’d laid down a small fortune for this whisky; had thought he’d be drinking it as a celebration. Not as a wake for the relationship he’d had with the person who should have shared the bottle with him. He’d thought it had been a good joke to buy a whisky that was the same age as his lover for their yearly celebration. He had even imagined the look on Ryan’s face – the way his lips would quirk in an attempt not to smile because he didn’t want Simon to know he’d won that round of…whatever game it was that they were playing.

Had been playing.

God, Simon needed a drink.

He sipped slowly at the whisky – to an observer it would have looked as though he was savouring every mouthful. In reality, he didn’t taste a drop. It seemed as though his entire brain was taken up with thoughts of Ryan – Ryan’s smile, Ryan’s laugh, Ryan’s voice hissing hurtful words that Simon knew he deserved.

It had all been so random, this fight. Every year, the night after the final, he and Ryan would get together and fuck out all the tension left over from the season before Simon had to get back to the UK. Usually, Ryan was his usual exuberant self; this evening, though, Simon had noticed instantly that something was off. Ryan’s energy was clearly restless instead of being fuelled by tension, and rather than climbing onto Simon’s lap as soon as the door was closed he had kept his distance. 

“Something wrong?” Simon had asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. 

Ryan hadn’t answered straight away – Simon wasn’t even sure if he’d even heard. Then Ryan had looked him in the eyes, and Simon had known in that moment that there would be trouble. 

“You don’t actually have any real feelings for me, do you?” Ryan’s voice had been low, but there was an edge to it that Simon had never heard before. Instead of taking it as a warning, though, he chose to ignore it and err on the side of flippancy.

“I would say that irritation and frustration are _very_ real emotions,” he had snarked, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of Ryan’s response.

But instead of rising to the bait, Ryan had slammed his hand down on the coffee table, loud enough to make Simon jump. “God _dammit_ , Simon!” he had shouted, and suddenly Simon wasn’t sure what was going on. Ryan took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was more measured, although his shoulders were still taught with tension. “Can you not take _anything_ seriously? You have to make everything into a joke, don’t you? I don’t think you have the ability to have any real feelings at all.”

“Oh, come on, Ryan. You _know_ that’s not true,” Simon had protested, glaring. Ryan knew better than that, and he was suddenly determined to find out what the hell was making Ryan act like this. 

“Isn’t it?” Ryan’s tone had turned icy. “You’ll paw me on live TV, but you won’t even let me tell my friends we’re together.”

“ _Sleeping_ together.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, Simon had known he’d made a mistake. The colour had drained from Ryan’s face in an instant, and Simon could see the moment his eyes shuttered. 

Nodding slowly, Ryan had pursed his lips. “Right. Right.” There had been a moment of silence, then Ryan had stalked towards Simon’s chair. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all we’ve ever been. Two people who occasionally meet up to fuck.”

Nothing could be further from the truth, in Simon’s mind, but he’d be damned if this _child_ was going to emotionally blackmail him into admitting anything he wasn’t ready to admit. “What else would you expect?” he had snarled. “It’s not as though we’d have a future without ruining one or both of our careers. Frankly, I don’t see the point of getting emotionally involved.” Lies, all of it; he was already in as deep as he had ever been. But he hadn’t been willing to give an inch.

Ryan was still nodding, looking faintly thoughtful – then, without warning, he had picked up Simon’s mug of coffee and thrown it at the wall, where it had shattered. Coffee and shards of china had sprayed everywhere as Simon stared wide-eyed at Ryan. He had suddenly wanted to take everything back, to make it right, but Ryan had already started backing up towards the door.

“Ryan, wait…” Simon had managed, standing up, but Ryan had stopped him with a look, holding up his hand.

“What do you even want, Simon?” His voice had been weary, and Simon had wanted nothing more than to kiss him until he was no longer _looking_ at Simon like that.

“I…” he had begun, but Ryan hadn’t been listening.

“Y’know what? It doesn’t even matter. You only want to play with people. But guess what? People aren’t your toys.”

With that, he had walked out, leaving Simon alone to come to terms with the fact that he’d lost the only person he’d cared this deeply for in as long as he could remember.

He had almost finished the bottle now. Staring at the wall, he wondered if he should have seen this coming. There must have been signs. Through the whisky haze fogging his brain came a half remembered memory of Ryan telling him – and Paula and Randy – to stop playing with him, because he wasn’t a toy. But that had been banter, surely. And yet… Simon couldn’t shake the thought that maybe there was some significance in the fact that Ryan had echoed this almost exactly. 

“Fuck it,” Simon thought, dropping his glass into the sink and barely wincing at the smash. He was leaving for London the next day and, aside from an occasional call which he would have to take from Ryan’s radio show to keep up appearances, he wouldn’t have to speak to Ryan until the auditions tour in August. It was better that way, Simon told himself as he stared into the darkness of his empty bedroom. It was better without having to worry about someone else’s feelings.

It was better this way.

It was going to have to be.


End file.
